


little words

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blankets, Charlie Feels, Confessions, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hadn’t meant...he’d meant Cas could take the blanket back to his room. But Cas is already sinking into the bed with a look of bliss on his face, and Dean can’t just. He likes Cas to feel warm. If that’s something he can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	little words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destielicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielicious/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, casfucker!

Dean traces the screen of his latest burner phone with a thumbnail. Thanks to Charlie, it contains all of the messages and data and saved images and everything else he’d had on the last; she’d set up some kind of cloud storage password on the dark web, and there were like...80 phone numbers in there. He’d be able to update his burners for a long time, apparently.

He itches to text her. “New phone, thanks again,” but his fingers type something else. Now, “Love you,” isn’t something Dean says, or types even, ever. When he’d replied to Charlie’s “Love you, Dean!” text signoffs, he’d said “I know.” Of course.

Yeah, ‘cause he did, like a little sister. Luke, not Han. And it’s nothing he would have said first. To anyone. And he only really texted ”I know” because when your friend tells you she loves you, you can’t just say, “Bye, dude.” But today, unlike that rainy Thursday the last time they’d spoken, before things went to shit for Charlie, he thumbs in “Love you.” It should have been something he’d said to her. Before.

Shit, it was stupid, but if anybody could hack a phone from the great beyond, it’d be Charlie Bradbury. Still, he lets the message sit on his screen until it fades to black.

His eyes sting over the burned tang of stale coffee in a cardboard cup and he pokes a knuckle deep into one of them, because he is not, _not,_ going to cry in the waiting area of the only Chevy dealership around where he can pick up special orders. 

Dean stuffs his phone into his jacket pocket, pulls his wallet out of his jeans, and pays cash for two quarts of oil and a vintage stock voltage regulator ground wire in its original packaging before heading back to the Impala, which is mostly set to rights cosmetically, thanks to parts he’d been picking up and storing in the bunker garage. His phone rings - the pizza place letting him know his other order’s ready (the thing that _sucks_ about the bunker is the no-delivery issue) and he heads over to pick it up.

On the way home, the phone buzzes again, just as he swerves to avoid an elderly driver peeking over the dashboard of a car even larger than his. Swearing, he fumbles to answer. 

“Dean.” the voice says.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me.” 

Obviously. Like anybody else sounds like Cas. “Hey buddy, on the way home, can’t talk right now.”

“Okay, Dean.” 

Dean hangs up and tosses the phone next to him on the bench seat. 

 

In the bunker, Dean finds Castiel in the kitchen, just beaming. He sets the pizza boxes on the table. “Grab some napkins, Cas? Over there by the-” 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, sounding grateful as hell.

“Wow, hey.” Dean smiles at him. “I know, but it’s just pizza.”

Cas sniffs. 

“One of ‘em _is_ meat lover’s though. You must be really hungry.”

“I am.” Cas is still an angel, but something about the way he’d battled Rowena’s curse had honed a new ability to push his grace aside sometimes, enough to enjoy the taste of food again and even to sleep. He even seemed to like the whole ritual of that, pajamas and hot showers, the whole nine. Maybe it had slowed Cas’ recovery a little, made him a little more vulnerable, but hey, you know, that was fine by Dean. He could stay as long as he liked, watch all the Netflix he wanted.

“I feel safe here,” he’d said to Dean. 

_Safe._

Dean likes hearing that in a way he can't really put a name to. He lets out a gust of breath and Cas smiles at him as he plunks a whopping stack of napkins on the table. 

“Sam!” Dean shouts, pulling packets of parmesan and red pepper flakes from the plastic sack on top of the pizza boxes. They had plenty of that stuff, but hey, this was free. “Pizza!”

“Could you have at least attempted to get a side salad?” Sam asks breathlessly even as he pulls open the top box and grabs a slice. 

Dean scoffs. “There’s vegetables on the other one.” Sam raises the lid and rolls his eyes. “See? It’s supreme. There’s everything on it.”

“I’ll have the everything pizza,” Cas murmurs, dropping two slices onto a plate and licking his fingers. 

 

Dean showers off the grease after working on the Impala for a couple of hours, and yes, the voltage reg had been a bitch and a half. He has a scratch on his forearm from the day before, but it’s already healing; it isn’t something he’d trouble Cas with after he’d healed the wounds from the Nachzehrer. Were-pire. He grins at himself. Honestly, he feels pretty damned decent. As hot water sluices against his skin, Dean rinses off the suds and considers a little self-love. He’s a longtime shower-whacker, after years of shared motel rooms, but now he has privacy and memory foam and hell, he may be horny, but he’s beat. It can wait. Maybe even 'til morning. 

Maybe he’s getting old after all.

Dean’s still beaded with water in the chill of the hallway, a towel around his waist, when he runs into Cas and finds himself pulled into a sudden hug.

Cas tightens his arms around him, and after a moment Dean relaxes into the embrace. Cas still isn’t a fan of personal space, but this...this is fine. Cas smells like the castile soap Dean had bought him as a sort of joke because it was just one letter off, and some kind of sample-size motel shampoo and spearmint toothpaste, and the dead guy robe carries the scent of laundry detergent. His hair’s slightly damp, too. Dean gives his back a lame little pat before easing away, letting his eyes drop. 

“That my robe?” 

Cas blinks. “Oh. Yes, I’m sorry,” he says, shrugging it off, but Dean stills him, hands on his shoulders.

“Nah. What’s mine’s yours, you know that.” Dean turns to open his bedroom door and Cas follows him in. “What’s up?”

“I just..” Castiel trails off as Dean opens a drawer and grabs a pair of sweats, edging them on before losing the towel. He pulls a t-shirt over his head. 

“God,” Dean complains. “The boiler’s so good, I don’t know why this wing doesn’t heat up. Must be the cinderblock. It’s ice cold in here.”

“I feel the same,” Castiel says.

“Yeah?” Dean puts his hands on his hips. He still has goosebumps from the walk down the hall. Cas can dial up his angel mojo and avoid the chill, but Dean isn’t going to point that out. 

Cas feels _safe_ here. 

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “I definitely do.”

“Well,” Dean eyes the electric blanket on his bed. It dates (probably) from the 60s, and Sam thinks it’s dangerous to use, but Dean knows different: _“It has an inspection tag on it, still, see?”_ Really, Dean’s about to pass out anyway and the thing’s already been on; he can spare it until they pick up one for Cas tomorrow. “If you want…” he indicates the blanket and Castiel looks at him, surprised.

“ _Thank_ you, Dean.” Quickly, Castiel pulls off the robe and tosses it across the foot of Dean’s bed, goes to the other side, pulls back the covers, and slips in. 

“Uh,” Dean’s mouth goes arid. He hadn’t meant...he’d meant Cas could take the blanket back to his room. But Cas is already sinking into the bed with a look of bliss on his face, and Dean can’t just. He likes Cas to feel warm. If that’s something he can do.

He sighs, draws back the covers on his side, and slides in. “Oh god,” he moans. It’s downright tropical; and the heat from the blanket always turns the memory foam into what feels like the inside of a toasty marshmallow. “Feels good.” 

“Yes.” 

After a minute, Dean turns his head and glances at Cas; his eyes are shut. “I’m just. I’m just gonna…” he reaches for the bedside lamp and switches it off. It should feel strange, he thinks, Cas catching 40 winks, let alone in Dean’s bed, in pitch black but for green glow of the alarm clock numerals marking just midnight, but it isn’t. “Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean,” he hears Cas murmur, before falling under.

 

The time on the alarm clock says 5:37 when Dean opens his eyes and appreciates those solid nearly six dreamless hours. The electric blanket automatically shuts off after 90 minutes, usually, but his back’s still warm. He’s comfortable and...hard. Dean eyes the box of tissues in the dim green light and slides a hand along his front, dragging his boxers down and getting a nice grip. He’d just jerk it, get the coffee on, and--

An arm drapes around his waist, something solid presses against the curve of his spine, and a knee slips into the back of his own. He almost shrieks like a six-year-old girl, but then remembers. Cas is here. And Cas is apparently making himself the big spoon. Dean freezes, one hand on his dick, sensing slow, steady puffs of air against his back.

He’ll just...he’ll slide out of bed and…

The arm tightens around him, lower, and Dean feels Cas’ wrist graze along the bared head of his dick and suddenly stop. Fuck, he’ll. Just.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice is sleepy and gruff. Dean breathes out, slowly, forces a normal tone as he begins leaning towards the edge of the bed.

“Uh, just getting up, making some coffee. You. You, go back to sleep.”

“Don’t get up,” Cas murmurs into Dean’s shoulder blade. “Warm.”

So he doesn’t realize. Good. “Nah, I just have to--”

Cas slips his hand down bared skin, finds Dean’s, finds Dean’s dick. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. _”Sorry, man,” he’ll say. “Forgot I had company.”_ It’ll be funny and Dean’s pretty sure Cas’d just forget this happened and Dean will ask him NOT TO TELL SAM and things will be completely normal and he’ll make breakfast and go out to Penney’s and get Cas an electric blanket of his own. When did they open? Maybe ten, and--

“Dean,” Cas whispers into the curve of his neck as he wraps his hand around Dean’s cock, twines their fingers together, and surely he has to know what this kind of thing-- he’d been human, really human before, and how is Dean still rock hard? Morning wood, yeah, but he’s internally...something. Is it panic? Maybe. Some. His heart’s thumping out of his chest and he holds his breath as Cas squeezes Dean’s fingers and slide them down and up, smooths a thumb over the head, where Dean’s dripping. Fuck.

“Cas?” he manages, shakily, his other hand coming up to grip Cas’ wrist. “You-”

“Shh,” Cas says, warm breath against the back of Dean’s ear as Cas’ chin tucks into his neck. He moves their hands again, in tandem, slow and deliberate, and Dean screws his eyes shut, gasping…

Is Dean really going to--

“Is this okay?” Cas asks, softly.

\--let Cas jerk him off in his bed? The hand stills. And he...he wants...he _wants_. This.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “Oh fuck. Yes.”

 

The alarm blares suddenly; 6:00 am on the dot. Still panting as he comes down, he smacks the top to shut it off. He should get out of bed, Dean thinks. Grab a tissue. Clean up. Put on the coffee. Instead, he switches on the bedside lamp. Dean rolls over onto his back and when Cas’ arm steals around his waist again, and his head comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder, he turns his own and seeks out Cas’ lips, presses his own there, turns in bed and wraps an arm around him, lets the kiss bloom from a sweet brush of lips to something deeper. 

When he opens his eyes and leans back to catch Cas’ gaze, he thinks maybe his expression mirrors his own: raw, a little bit shocked. Maybe a lot.

Dean backs to the side, on one elbow, lets his left hand drift over Cas’ rucked-up t-shirt, along the tanned ladder of ribs, down to his stomach, sucked-in breath pulling the skin taut, to the sheet bunched up below the jutting curve of Cas’ blue cotton boxers. He glances upward.

Cas’ eyes are wide, his chest heaving. “You, you don’t--”

“I know I don’t _have_ to, Cas.” 

“No, I mean…” Cas swallows the rest of the thought.

What? This, with guys? Yeah, well. Not recently. Dean smirks, leans upward, slips one of his knees between Castiel’s, and hooks his fingers into the elastic of his boxers to drag them down. Cas makes a soft, formless noise, and Dean raises a palm, waves it.

“Shh. Just...let me.” 

Cas nods, _yes yes,_ teeth tearing at his bottom lip, and Dean twists his thumb up along a vein on the underside of Cas’ cock, then lowers his head to trace the path over with his tongue, chase it with a hot torn-up breath at the head. Cas lets out a satisfactory shaky-sharp inhale at that. 

Nice. Cas has a...a nice dick, Dean thinks. It’d been awhile since he’d been head-to-head, so to speak, with anybody’s. But Cas, his is pretty like the rest of him, thick and flushed dark, silken smooth flesh over steel. His own cock twitches, even sated. He noses at the base, mouths a kiss along the juncture of hip and thigh, and Cas slips a hand into Dean’s hair. 

Dean knows Cas isn’t “junkless” or holy-chaste, he’d gotten it on as a human, even. He doesn’t know if he’d had this before, though, and he wants to make it good. He eases Cas into his mouth, holds the base, sucks and backs out to swirl at the head with his tongue.

“Dean,” Cas groans, along with something that sounds like Enochian, maybe, prayer or confession or a snatch of song, Dean doesn’t know, but it’s all music.

“Yeah, come on, Cas, come on,” Dean urges, doubling down, a hand tight on Cas’ thigh, the other pumping as Cas’ hips buck and jerk, slim fingers raking his scalp, pulling his hair. Dean works his pleasure like a project, deep-throat, wet-lick, fist-twist on the downstroke, leaving Cas pleading, incomprehensible. “Come on, baby,” Dean begs.

Cas groans, loud, calls his name, sweet fuck, just the way he’d hoped to hear it, and Dean takes him deeper and swallows, softens his mouth around his length, and eases himself off. Cas’ eyes are open, clear and bright. His chest rises, falls, rises, and he sighs, fingertips splayed across the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean shifts to lay his head on Cas’ chest, feels his own breath slow with the cadence of the heartbeat below his ear. He raises his head a few minutes later, dips the edge of his jaw into Cas’ skin and catches his gaze.

“Bacon n’ eggs?”

Cas nods, wordless. Dean feels his eyes on him as he dresses.

 

Dean sips black coffee from his mug, lays fat strips of bacon into hot cast iron, pulls out another pan for the eggs, and keys his PIN into his phone. 

Missed call, missed call, texts: from Sam, yeah yeah, salad, whoops, shit, whatever. From Cas, some of those pictogram things, emoticons? Emojis, okay. And “Yes, me too.” Huh? 

He scrolls up. Adrenaline hits. Fight or flight or freeze or what’s the other thing? There are four things. Four. Dean forces himself to breathe.

So he hadn’t sent Charlie that text. He and Cas’d wrapped up that conversation regarding witch lore and pizza, or so Dean had thought, but no, they had not, and yes he had sent Castiel that message instead.

Just a short message. Just two words. Little words. 

“Love you.”

Something he can’t say. Doesn’t say out loud, ever. 

Little words, but too big, somehow. 

He could say them and maybe they wouldn’t be reciprocated, because what would he do if they weren’t? What would he do if they were?

 _”I feel the same,”_ Cas had said. Last night. So, not the cold, then. Not the chill. That. And that’s...it’s okay. Dean feels something uncoil in his spine, the tension flowing out.

He takes another faltering breath and places the phone on the counter with a gentle click. 

He should be panicking now, Dean thinks. But he feels warm instead. Warm. And safe.

Cas is here, now, striding into the kitchen, hand wrapped around a book. “Dean, I’ve got--” 

“I meant it,” Dean blurts out. Bacon pops loudly on the stove. Cas catches his eye and glances over to the phone.

“Oh,” Cas says, lips quirking upward. “Yes, Dean. I know.”

Dean turns the bacon and clears his throat. “We could get another one of those blankets, if you want, or--”

“Do we need _another_ one?”

“No.” Dean says, smiling down at the pan. “No, we don’t. Save a few bucks, you know.”

“I know,” Cas says, pressing his lips to the side of Dean’s shoulder before settling at the table with his book.


End file.
